


The Confirmation

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, but he's a bit clumsy with words, happily he has other methods of communication, it's a tender one, john does his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warmth. He snuggles closer, happy and content.</p>
<p>”You came back.”</p>
<p>A concerned voice, soft and wondering. He wants to sleep, just five more minutes. He'd had the most lovely dream. It had been about Sh- -</p>
<p>“John, please. I need to talk to you before it takes me again.”</p>
<p>- -erlock. Wait, what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Confirmation

Warmth. He snuggles closer, happy and content.

”You came back.”

A concerned voice, soft and wondering. He wants to sleep, just five more minutes. He'd had the most lovely dream. It had been about Sh- -

“John, please. I need to talk to you before it takes me again.”

\- -erlock. Wait, what?

He opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with the man. Sherlock's grey eyes are clouded, his mouth unhappy. John blinks sleep from his own eyes, tries to understand. Sherlock seems to be awfully close.

His nose comes finally back online, and with it the surrounding heavy scents of sex and heat register as well. Oh, God. Not a dream, then. This is the point where Sherlock tells him to leave and never come back. John groans, opens his mouth to explain, to beg for forgiveness, but Sherlock beats him to it.

“We have half an hour, at most. Are you awake yet?”

He nods and then notices that Sherlock is very tense, laying on his arms and stark naked. He tries to move away, to get some kind of respectful distance between them, but Sherlock holds him tightly. The corners of his mouth turn noticeably downwards at John's escape attempt.

“Humour me. I'm in heat and you're an alpha. I know you'll be going soon enough. But please, just allow me this.”

John stops struggling, looks at him questioningly. That wasn't what he expected. Sherlock should be repulsed by him, by his actions. He says as much aloud, mind still fuzzy from the recent sex and sleep. Sherlock frowns.

“Why? If anyone here should be apologising, I'd think it was me.”

Wordless, John lays a gentle palm on Sherlock's neck, close to his shoulder. The wound doesn't bleed anymore, but it's still red and angry.

“I did this.”

He raises his hand and pets his friend's mishandled curls.

“I hurt you here.”

He lets the warm palm slide on Sherlock's side, resting it on his lower back.

“I knotted you.”

Every whisper feels like a confession. Saying the vile words helps, makes breathing easier. They seem to have the opposite influence on Sherlock, who shivers with every touch, unable to accept gentleness even when he welcomed violence. John hates the nameless alpha who took and then discarded Sherlock like he was something worthless, like he wasn't amazing at all. His eyes return obsessively to the bond-bite, time and a time again. Somewhere, out there, is an alpha John would very much like to hurt.

Sherlock sees the trajectory of his eyes, his clouded expression. He flinches, his hand raising to the bite, cradling it. Almost protectively. But which one is he shielding? The old scar, or John's new claim?

Why does it matter so much to him? Sherlock never asked him to his bed. He has no right to be here.

“John, I,” the omega starts, but then cuts himself out. Since when has Sherlock Holmes stammered? He draws a shaky breath, tries again.

“You gave me a moment of clarity. Thank you. And I do apologise. For this, and – in advance. I know this wasn't what you wanted.”

John gapes.

“I came here. Out of my free will,” he points out. Sherlock grimaces.

“I know the effect I have on alphas,” he says darkly. “I'm surprised you held out for so long. I'm just sorry it had to come to this. To end like this.”

Sherlock still doesn't make any sense. How can he blame himself? John decides it's the heat talking.

“End?” He repeats miserably. Because well, he knew this was going to happen. Here, finally, is the moment when Sherlock throws him out. He had just hoped it could be avoided.

He realises he's still cradling the omega, that Sherlock is still clinging to him like a scared child. It's not exactly your run-of-the-mill break-up -situation, but then, what has ever been normal with Sherlock Holmes?

“Everybody leaves me,” Sherlock shrugs, and John freezes. 

Sherlock's tone is so casual, so full of false bravado. It's a statement of a fact, not a lament. Emotional response is not welcome here, no matter how much John would like to provide one. No matter the light tremors wrecking the omega's body even when they speak. No matter the ferocious growl trapped in John's throat. He bites it back, tries to look at Sherlock's eyes.

But he has ducked his head under John's chin, cheek against his shirt. He doesn't look like a person happy about the thought of being left. John wants to pet the wild curls.

John doesn't pet his curls.

_I'm giving space_ , he thinks, dazed, _to Sherlock Holmes._

He allows himself to feel the slightest flicker of hope. Maybe they don't end here after all.

But there are things to discuss, and as Sherlock pointed out, they are running out of time. The one topic he keeps coming back to is again at the top of his mind. He has to ask. He can't help it.

“About your bond,” he starts carefully, aiming for a neutral tone, “Mycroft told me about it. I'm sorry.” He thinks of the anonymous alpha of his friend's past and feels his anger rising again. “He had no right.”

This, at least, merits a reaction from Sherlock. His head snaps up, his eyes wide and shocked, his cheeks tear-striped. His hand flies to the bite. John doubts he realises he's doing that.

“Mycroft? Told you?” There's a hitch in his voice. His eyes crisscross over John's face, but it doesn't look like he's deducing anything. His skin pales and his breathing grows quick, unstable. A panic reaction. Oh Lord, John caused a panic reaction with his prodding. _Shit._

He has a lapful of a distressed omega in bed with him. His instincts scream at him to react, to take action. He bites his teeth together, tries to keep a neutral face, but can't help his suddenly racing heart. He doesn't want to scare Sherlock, or make him feel guiltier than he already does. How the man has decided to blame himself for this, he will never understand. One might think there were likelier candidates for Sherlock's guilt trips, if his friend ever took those. Apparently, he does.

What a weird place the world has turned out to be.

John knows enough not to draw attention to Sherlock's state. He hums quietly, and holds the trembling mess his own unthinking words turned the omega into, until his breathing steadies, his shivers gentle. They don't cease.

He smells the change in the air.

Their half an hour of grace is coming to an end. Nothing is concluded. In his arms, Sherlock tenses.

“May I see you naked?”

It's an oddly polite question in their situation, but John is starting to understand. Sherlock is upset, but not at John. It's almost like he's upset _for_ John, angry at his own body for affecting them both so much. Mycroft's words of loathing and betrayal return to his mind. Oh, Sherlock.

Wordlessly, John withdraws and strips without once leaving the bed. The trembling is constant now, and John sees how Sherlock has to fight not to reach out for him. His cock is fully erect, but he makes no effort to hide it. They went past that point a long time ago.

“Is it really so hateful?” The words are out before he has time to consider them and Sherlock visibly jerks, forces his eyes back to John's.

“The worst thing I know,” he whispers, and John's heart hurts. How much had that honesty cost his friend?

“I'm so sorry,” he says and risks a touch, a palm on a knee. Sherlock freezes. He seems so young, so unsure of himself, of them, even with his cock red and leaking and his arse shiny with the fluids of their earlier mating. John wants to hide him away and never let another alpha get near him again.

But this is Sherlock. Sherlock, who hates this side of himself, who has just admitted that there's nothing more degrading in his whole world.

“Should I go?” John asks before realising his mistake.

Because this is Sherlock. Sherlock, who believes that everybody will leave him. So far, everybody has. Why should he think John be any different?

Sherlock gasps, and lunges before the question is out of John's mouth, and the desperation in his eyes is all too raw, too hurting. John is an idiot. 

The pleasant shock of warm, bare skin against his own goes unnoticed as Sherlock apparently tries to wiggle himself inside his skin, a creature made of the misery of heartache and the fear of loss. 

“It's all right, it's all right. I won't go anywhere,” he croons and hugs the omega close, wondering about the huge changes in his friend's behaviour. How much of this is induced by the heat, and how much of it is Sherlock himself, normally so carefully hidden away behind a wall of cold logic and a billowing coat?

Somehow, Sherlock manages to get himself under control again and extracts himself a little way from John, searching for his gaze.

“I want you to know that I'm not unhappy,” he slurs, paradoxically, and then John sees the exact moment of him leaving. His body relaxes, his eyes glaze over and his legs open invitingly. It's heartbreaking, but also sickeningly hot. His mind may be gone, but his body, his pliant, lithe, perfect, already wet and opened body is left behind for John's pleasure. His cock takes even more interest than it has before, and Sherlock's eyes snap to it. He opens his mouth. He licks his lips, his little pink tongue darting outside for a fraction of a second, and John has to grip the bedsheets because otherwise he'll take a hold of that head and put it to a better use. And Sherlock would let him, would even revel in it.

Oh Lord, he can see it even without closing his eyes, Sherlock on all fours between his knees, sucking his cock, his cheeks trembling with the effort of it, his legs slick with lubrication. John could seize those curls, move that head as he wished. He has seen how far under Sherlock goes in heat. He doubts there's nothing he wouldn't let him do.

_Remember that, oh God remember that. It doesn't mean he wants it, even when he begs you for it. Especially when he begs you for it._

No, he has to make this be all about Sherlock. This time, he will control himself. This time, Sherlock will not get hurt. No blood. No aggression. No knotting.

Oh _God_ , how will he ever be able to do this?

–

The start is not promising. He feels like a performer on an unknown stage, all sharp edges and wrong corners. He's acutely aware of their every movement, of his every want. Most of them he has to quench, recognising a road leading to the loss of his precious control. Everything in him yearns to get closer to Sherlock, to cherish and to own. It's hard, drawing the line between those two. What's acceptable, what can he _do_ , without violating that trust?

Sherlock stares at him, his expression almost adoring, his movements slow and languid. He's stroking himself, just a small tease, his fist feather-light around his cock, his hips doing little circles against the sheets. John needs to get his mouth on him, _now_.

He crawls over Sherlock, pins his back to the mattress. Sherlock moans softly, arches against him. How sensitive is he, if even this simplest of touches warrants such a reaction? Time to find out.

He starts with his throat, lapping and sucking gently, unable to still the restless movements of his own hips, until Sherlock is panting, raising his chin, turning his head to the side, baring the needy flesh. He tries to open his legs, get John between his knees, but John's not ready to go there yet. _Slowly_ , he keeps on reminding himself, _go slowly_. It's rewarding, marking Sherlock this way. John wants to purr. He wants to bite. He pinches himself, keeping the alpha sternly at bay.

Only when Sherlock's throat is as wet as his cock does John move on. The ache between his own legs is getting more insistent, harder to ignore. He wants so many things, feels the alpha growing inside. He's afraid he can't keep his resolve.

Sherlock shakes under him, little demanding noises pouring from his mouth. His useless little omega cock is rubbing against John's stomach, and as soon as he catches himself having _that_ particular thought he knows what to do. He goes down, gets an eyeful of said cock, and swallows it down before talking himself out of this.

He's never given a blow job before. That doesn't seem to matter to Sherlock, who tenses for a second before thrusting helplessly into his mouth, mewling and sprawling on the bed, his eyes wide with arousal, his fingers digging into John's hair. He experiments with the force of his movements and the suction until he's satisfied with the state of helpless abandon he manages to cause in the omega. Sherlock trashes on the bed, alternatively trying to get further and then closer again, his whimpers melting into little sounds of need as John lets him use his mouth, drags his tongue against his salty cock, takes him to the root. Sherlock quivers, and shakes, and finally sobs, spreading out his legs, offering himself to John. His hole is wet again, his balls drenched with saliva and lubricant.

John has never felt a rush like this before. He has Sherlock's whole attention, he controls his every need, he has the means to cause him immense pleasure. He wonders why he hasn't done this earlier. Then the scent of Sherlock's arousal envelops him and he nearly pokes himself in the eye in his haste to get to that perfect place so demandingly offered to him. Sherlock's cock slaps against his stomach, forgotten. John has his mind, and mouth, elsewhere.

Sherlock is still open, and his tongue slips inside so easily, like it was meant to be there, and Sherlock is keening over him, raising his legs to John's shoulders, kicking him on the scar as he goes. John doesn't care, doesn't even notice really, is too busy slipping two fingers inside and spreading Sherlock for a more thorough exploration. He pokes, and wiggles, and licks, and Sherlock's legs tremble, the muscles in his stomach tremble, and it's fully possible that the whole bed trembles as well. John realises he's fucking the air, his hips and his cock jerking hopefully forward, and he raises his head, looks straight at Sherlock wild, amazed eyes, and begs, brokenly.

“Can I, please, can I - -?”

And Sherlock moans, melts against him, takes a hold of his own buttocks and spreads himself wide open, wet and so beyond ready it's a wonder he hasn't come already. John raises to his knees, still supporting his omega's legs on his shoulders, and sheathes himself with one long, sinuous movement. It feels just as perfect as on the first time, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the omega arching under him, his mouth an open O, his eyes closed, a pink haze high on his cheeks, his rosy nipples standing to pert attention. He's beautiful, the most beautiful thing John has ever seen, and he fights to keep his eyes open, to drink in this sight of Sherlock so surrendered, so overtaken by pleasure.

Moving feels so good it has to be a sacrilege, but John keeps happily blaspheming, aiming his thrusts until he finds _that_ spot inside Sherlock, and his reward is immediate.

Sherlock's eyes fly open, a surprised gasp flees his mouth, and a second later he's moaning and coming, painting their bodies with white stripes, his cock untouched between them, his hands firmly on John's arse. His hole clenches almost painfully around John, and he has to move faster, go even deeper, or he'll break something. Sherlock has his hands on him, keeps encouraging him, until John finally gives in, let's go of his self-control and starts pounding in earnest, retaining just enough coherency to keep on aiming for that one perfect spot inside his perfect Sherlock, and Lord, the sounds Sherlock is making.

The guards must hear. The whole street must hear.

Let them.

John Watson is not shy in making his claim known.

His knot is rising together with the urge to bite, and he fights the latter down by ravaging Sherlock's lips, panting and moaning and licking inside his hot mouth, until Sherlock is jerking and probably coming again, and he won't let go of John's arse, and the knot is almost there, and he _can't help it - -._

The knot slips inside, and Sherlock squeezes down around it, greedily, and then John is coming, he's screaming into Sherlock's mouth, straight into his lungs, and he can't stop twitching, can't stop crying, when did he start crying? And Sherlock, he's drinking his tears, licking them away from his face, rubbing his back and not letting him get one inch away. John realises he's shaking, all over, and collapses on his omega, exhaustion and continuous orgasms wrecking his body in turns.

At some point he notices his shoulder is aching.

Oh yes, Sherlock kicked his scar, the bastard.

Not important.

The words are hard. The words don't work for him.

John gathers his courage, kisses Sherlock Holmes straight on the lips. Tenderly, revealingly.

And Sherlock, his eyes clear, his mind present, kisses him back.

Sherlock kisses him back.


End file.
